Infected
by BrokenForYouSpilledForYou
Summary: As far as he knows, nowhere in England is safe. Please be gentle, it's an experiment. Jonesfic.
1. First Taste

**My two favorite things: Midsomer Murders, and zombies. I thought, "Why not mix the two?" Just for fun, and a side project when I become bored with my other Jonesfic. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot!**

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They're everywhere. Some have their lips curled back (or what's left that hasn't decayed), revealing yellowed, rotting teeth, gnashing them in his general direction; they run at him like rabid animals. Others are so far into decomposition that their bodies, from the waist down, are completely rotted off (or gnawed off, he can't tell), entrails trailing behind them in the dirt while they claw their way to him with boney, bloodied fingers. Some just stand and hiss at him, preparing to charge. What could possibly make this anymore horrifying? He knows these...no, they can no longer be called people, for they're hardly even shadows of who they used to be.

Some of them are right on his heels, proving all those stupid horror films he'd seen wrong. They're not sluggish and ridiculously easy for the hero to kill, oh no. These..._things_...are as fast as able-bodied, full-out athletes, pushing him past limits even his _police _training had set for him. He's running so quickly, so rapidly, that he can't feel his heart ramming against his chest like an AK-47 (oh, what he'd give for one of those right now), or hear it rushing in his ears. His lungs are burning like the biggest bonfire, unable to supply him with oxygen fast enough. His legs, too, are oxygen-deprived, screaming for him to stop. His vision is becoming black and fuzzy around the edges, but he knows that to take a break, even if just for a few seconds, is signing his death warrant.

One of the creatures lunges at him, its bloodied hand catching the hem of his pant leg. He stumbles, running doubled over. Another one lunges, successfully forcing him down. His left shoulder blade connects with the pavement, tearing open his jacket and t-shirt and eating away at his skin. He rolls a few times, then uses the momentum to force himself back up and into a run. Someone darts out from behind a vehicle, apparently having been in hiding. Unfortunately, he isn't as fast as Benjamin Jones, born in Wales, raised in England. The creatures pull the same tactic on him as they did the policeman, ripping out his esophagus and then internal organs once he's down on the pavement, buying Ben some time.

He takes refuge in the fastest-looking vehicle he can find, frantically locking all the doors. He just lays out in the back seat, then, wheezing, bleeding-out onto the white, leather interior. The sounds in the world around him are terrible. That man, no older than twenty that had been tackled, is being ripped to nothing. He can hear bones snapping, ligaments and muscle being torn, blood and organs splattering on the pavement. The whole scene reminds him of lions destroying pray, and it's enough to make him roll over and throw up.

He climbs into the driver's seat when he's done, laying a lead foot on the gas pedal after hot wiring. He doesn't even bother trying to swerve when a few of the infected race out in front of him, cringing as they thud against the hood of the deep red Mustang. _Survival. Strictly survival. _He tells himself. _Besides, they're not people anymore...and there's no cure as far as we know. I'm doing them a favor...I guess._

A shaky hand reaches to the radio, turning it on with a beep. After scanning a few channels, he finally finds one with just little enough static to understand. _"Out numbered...Whole of England...Few...Refuge...Ep-...A-..." _All goes to static. He turns it off, not even bothering to find a music channel to calm his nerves.

_Just had to go to Liverpool this weekend. _He thinks. _How did this even start? Where did it start? When? Why? _All he can do is drive, eyes peeled, nerves on edge, and hope that there's somewhere safe to rest...and that the people back home aren't infected...yet.

**I know it's short. I wanted to give you a taste to see if you liked it or not. Yes, zombies and Midsomer. Like it? Please let me know! Your reviews are the wood to my fire!**


	2. Win Some Lose Some

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the zombies! Muhahahahaha!**

He's surprised to find that everything is so...deserted. He knew people wouldn't be out and about, but he figured he'd see _someone _on a two hour drive. He looks around as the gas tank fills, scanning the street, the businesses around. Nothing. He strains his ears, but all he can hear are the wind and the gas pump. Heaving out a sigh, he walks around to the right side of the car, removing the vomit-soiled foot mat and tossing it into the nearest bin. It had been bothering him through the whole course of the drive, but he hadn't wanted to stop unless he'd absolutely needed to, like now, for petrol.

He knows it won't take his mind off of the situation, but he reaches for the sudsy brush anyway, and goes about cleaning the blood off of the hood and grill, until there's nothing but his reflection and the gloss of the dark cherry paint staring back at him. _Mustang. _He muses. _Ford. American car. I must've stolen it from a collector. I'll have to get it back them after we get through this. _His eyes close for only a moment._If __we get through this..._The pump cuts off with a clunk, bringing him back to the present. He doesn't bother paying after screwing the cap back on. Instead, he pulls the car over to the little store just a few yards away, parking parallel with the door.

The engine remains on and the car door open as he walks in, grabbing a paper sack from the register. The store is a tiny place, just big enough for the wall in front of him to be occupied with refrigerated drinks, the wall to his right with breads, string cheese and sandwiches, and the wall to his left with the register, smoking devices and lighters. Everything in between are shelves of candies, crisps, and other such snacks. He proceeds through the store quietly, filling the bag first with breads and cheese, then crackers, crisps, and chocolates. Another bag is filled with drinks: sodas, water, energy/coffee drinks. Yet another bag is filled with alcoholic beverages, cigarette lighters and a few boxes of cancer sticks.

After loading all of this into the backseat of the Mustang, he ventures behind the register. Money, for once, is undesired. Nothing of use is found, thus he travels to the outdoors business just across the street, parking in the same manner. The floor is the first thing he notices: concrete, spotted with blood stains. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, listening, looking. Nothing but mounted animal heads stare back, and the only sound is the breeze rustling price tags on various objects. He proceeds cautiously, taking only a few steps at a time, stopping to look and listen. He's delighted to find that most of the shelves are loaded down with rifles. All different types. Hunting rifles, military/assault rifles, shot guns, all of different calibers. The counters are lined with case after glass case, full of pistols of every different flavor.

He uses his elbow to break several of the display cases, grabbing a particular shiny, silver magnum placed cleverly next to its shoulder holster in one case, loading it before securing it on his person. Next, he shoves a black magnum between his lower back and jeans, and another against his belly. Venturing behind the counter, a hunting rifle and 12-gauge occupy the cradle of his left elbow, an AK-47 his right hand. He loads them into the vehicle, goes back for at least three bags of ammunition, one bag of cleaning supplies. Walking around to the camping supplies, he makes sure to grab the most powerful torches he can find, and a bag full of batteries. He's preparing to leave when something stirs from the back of the store. At first he thinks it's just the breeze again, stirring up price tags, then realizes it's more of a scratching sound. He freezes, drawing the black magnum from his belly, holding it before him with both hands.

"Hello?"

The sound stops for a moment, then a jingling starts up. He takes a few steps towards it, pulls the cock back.

"Is anyone there? I'm not infected."

The scratching begins again, the jingling intensifies. A whimper fills the store, soft, then crescendos to a high-pitch. Jones stops completely, brows knitting.

"Are you hurt?" That's another thing he needs to grab...medical supplies. He walks slowly for the sound, peaking around isles of various camping supplies, hands beginning to shake. "I won't ask again. If you're there and uninfected, I need to know now."

He rounds the last isle, aiming the magnum cautiously at the site. There's a huge dog, ears pricked forward, grey eyes observing him. He realizes quickly that it's a Great Dane, mostly black with white socks and neck. His muzzle is also white, a stripe between his eyes. The jingling is coming from the multiple tags on his collar, and the scratching from his antsy paws on the concrete floor. He looms over an older, white-haired man, presumably the manager due to his blood-stained blue vest. Jones coughs and covers his nose and mouth, still pointing the magnum at the dog. The man's body is mostly devoured, the organs almost all gone, the skin chewed. The face can't be identified by looking at it, the lower lip having been ripped mostly off and the features scratched up.

The dog whimpers and paces around in the dried blood, claws clicking on the floor. He pauses every now and then to look at his master, then Jones, then paces more. Jones lowers the gun slowly to his side, shakes his head a few times. "Sorry, pal." He says from behind his hand, "Come 'ere, buddy, come on." He says gently.

The dog stares at him, seemingly sizing him up. His tail tucks between his legs, ears flatting back against his head. He whimpers again and paces, walking slowly to this new stranger. Jones notices first off that there's a bite mark on the right side of the dog's neck, human, and days old. _Odd. _He thinks. _Are animals not affected by this disease? He seems totally docile. _He scratches the animal behind the ears as it sits before his feet, whimpers coming a little softer, now. "There's a good dog." He coos. He slides the leather collar around to look at the tags, the first one shaped like a silver bone, reading, "Charlie". The next one is a blue oval, with the owner's information on it, and the last one is just a dog tag, green, containing his health information.

"All up to date on our shots then, Charlie?" He says softly, giving him a good rub on the head before standing up straight.

Charlie wags his white-tipped tail slowly, raising his ears slightly.

Jones looks around the area, mostly filled with deer stands and tents. Nothing here he can use. He gives the old man one more look, shivering as he walks away, beckoning quietly for Charlie to follow. A friend is a friend, no matter the form...and in these times...a friend is most definitely an essential. He leads Charlie to the front of the store, grabbing items along the way (mostly clothing), stopping to mount a duffle bag of medical supplies onto his shoulder, and again for dog food.

"Charlie, c'mon boy." He says, slamming the trunk shut.

Charlie stands, rump to Jones, tail totally still and ears pricked forward.

"Charlie, come." He repeats.

A low growl rumbles in the bottom of Charlie's throat, lips peeling back to reveal slick, white fangs. Jones's pulse accelerates. If it's another one of those..._things..._The silver magnum comes out of the shoulder holster, biceps tensing, senses heightened. He stays as close to the front of the building without sliding his shoulder against the bricks, hugging the corner as he peeks around it.

There are three of them.

The one standing closest to him is male, light blue dress shirt ripped and covered in blood...fresh blood, dribbling down from his chin. His skin, Jones notices, isn't as ashy or slightly green as the other two. A newly turned zombie, perhaps? His brown hair is still mostly there, just a few clumps missing. He still has a bit of meat to his bones, even muscle, but he still stands hunched over like the others. Something deep red rests in his hands...dripping blood onto the concrete.

The female is in a worse state, to say in the least. Her skin actually _does_ have a green tint to it, though it isn't incredibly obvious unless she's stared at. Her hair is also brown, very stringy, but still there, for the most part. Her eyes (color undetermined) look as though they're sunken back into her face, while her cheek bones stand out profoundly. Her pink polo shirt is also stained with blood, though it looks like it's been there longer than the first zombie's stains. She leans back against the building while sitting on a crate, staring at nothing in particular.

The third zombie, like the first, is male, and in the worst condition of them all. His shirt is so ripped that it can hardly even be called a shirt anymore, revealing most of his upper body. His skin is nearly brown with decomposition, looking more like leather than skin, clinging to his protruding ribs and caved-in belly. He looks starved (_aren't all zombies starving, though?)_, standing there, hunched over more than the other two, staring with crazed hunger at the bloody object in the other male creature's hands. He has blood on him, too, but it's days old, splattered across the remnants of his shirt and all over his jeans. Jones realizes with horror there are clumps of blue mixed in with the shredded shirt...a worker of the outdoors shop, and most likely the old manager's killer.

Jones pulls back around the corner, leaning against the wall. Trying to calm his frantic pulse, he takes a few deep breaths, then peaks around the corner again. A cat, short-haired, black, jumps down from a stack of boxes near the creatures, walking past them with bristled hair. The infected things just stare at it as it passes, except for the starved one, who continues staring at the object that Jones has realized is one of the organs from the victim in the building. He also realizes that the cat is coming his way, and ducts back around the corner, taking a few more steady breaths.

The cat comes into his view, pausing for a moment to analyze him. Noting a difference in this creature from the others, it sits, swaying the tip of its tail slowly. Cocking its head, it mews softly.

"Go on." He whispers. "Go away!"

Its tail stops. It mews again, louder.

"Leave me alone, you damned thing!" He whispers vainly. "Shoo! Go on! Go on!"

Now it flat-out cries, long and loud, prancing up to him to rub against his legs. Around the corner, he can hear one of the creatures growl and shuffle its feet, then a splat, most likely the organ hitting the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the animal away with his left foot. The shuffling gets louder. Dare he chance a look? He peeks around. The organ was indeed dropped, the nearly-starved one laying on the ground chewing on it. The female is standing, shuffling his direction, and the muscular one...has spotted him.

It lunges at him with frightening speed, forcing him to jump away from the wall and fire. Three shots penetrate his chest, slowing him down just long enough for Jones to fire at the female. Lead hits her legs, forcing her down. Charlie takes advantage, running and clenching her throat in his jaws. In an instant he rips her esophagus out, thrashing his head from side to side. The nearly starved zombie, happy enough (if zombies can be happy) continues laying on the ground, just eating. The muscular zombie, however, is back up, charging at Jones again. In a panic, he fires off several shots, each landing in the heart area. The creature continues running at him.

_*click*_

The silver magnum falls to the ground, empty, and before he can grab one of the black ones, the creature dives on him. It pins him to the ground with bloodied fingerers, gnashing its teeth just inches from his face. Jones grabs at the bits of shirt that aren't covered in blood, pushing up on the thing's shoulders with his fists, pushing up on its belly with his right knee. The creature is strong...much stronger than he'd earlier anticipated. It strains against his hands, lowering its head close...too close to his face...

Charlie rams into muscle monster just hard enough to give Jones an advantage. He shoves it off of him with his other knee, sending it tumbling just a few feet away. The creature only has enough time to look up before Jones pulls the trigger of black revolver number one, then again, and again. The gun is clicking by the time he's done; a whole clip used up on one monster's head. Understandably, he lays there...dead. Dead. A dead dead zombie. Jones rolls over quickly, drawing the revolver from against his back, pointing it at the other two. They're dead dead, too, their necks completely chewed through by Charlie. Speaking of Charlie...He looks to his left. The big dog is just sitting there, panting, tail wagging slowly. He looks at the creatures, chewed up, then at the dog, then muscles to his right. All dead.

He pushes himself up onto shaky feet, retrieving his weapons. He blows the dirt out of the barrels and empties the shells from the magazines, loading them again before tucking them into their new homes. He calls Charlie into the still running car, grabbing a few items from the store again before leaving. He's learned something today, and it may be the most crucial thing to survival. The brains must be destroyed, or the heads severed, in order to kill the creatures.

**You know what I dislike? When people add my stories to their alerts list...and then DON'T review! If they add it to their alerts, they obviously like it, and obviously have good things to say about it. Please review? Your opinions are gasoline to my flame. Even if you don't have much to say, just tell me what you think, I'll appreciate it!**

**DarknessDeadly: You hate zombies? *pout* I love a good zombie story! To each his own...Hopefully you won't be disappointed, there will be plenty of destruction! Thank you for liking it, and thank you for reviewing!**


	3. Disaster Zone

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Charlie and the zombies. *laughs evilly* *coughs* *more evil laughing***

He enjoys driving the Mustang. He's never really driven a sports car before. Or at least, not a really nice one, like this one. It's one of the newest Mustangs released, and then personalized by the owner, apparently. Chrome gas and break pedals, along with a chrome-headed gearshift. Even the steering-wheel is fancy, made of some sort of chrome-looking material, with a red chrome middle, and red grips on the top and lower sides of the wheel. The stereo is decked out as well, personally bought and installed. The colors of the numbers and buttons change every five minutes: red, blue, green, yellow, orange, and so on. He wonders if he's stolen it from a collector, or some rich kid. Either way, it's a nice car, and he has to keep reminding himself of where it came from, and why it's in his possession.

It feels odd driving on the left side of the car, with Charlie in the passenger seat on the right. It's definitely imported, directly from America. Charlie doesn't mind, though. He just sits there in the seat, staring out of the windshield like a human-being...almost as tall as one, too, with the tips of his tapered ears raking the ceiling. Jones can't help but smile. Who'd have known he was going to make a friend in the middle of all this? He could talk all he wanted, too, and not worry about the reply. Though sometimes, Charlie would lick his chops or wag his tail, sometimes pricking his ears forward or tilting his head, as though he knew what was being said.

Jones smiles as Charlie pushes his nose to the passenger window, pushing the button to let it down for him. It startles him a little when the huge dog shoves his head into the wind, giant paws on the armrest to make him even _taller._ But he stays just like that, going no further than lifting his nose a little above tree level. He wonders, looking at his new buddy, if any of his old ones have survived. He can't pick up any Midsomer stations on the radio, and none of his mates have answered or returned his calls. He has noted the steadily climbing body-count the closer he gets to home. So far, none of the barely crawling, or dead creatures have been wearing uniforms. He's not sure if that's good or not. Have they gotten away? Or are they waiting for...dare he think it...fresh meat?

His foot comes down quickly on the break pedal as his pulse accelerates. Is it? It can't be..._No_...A booted foot makes contact with the cool asphalt, the engine purring softly as he makes his way past the hood. There's a man in the middle of the road with his back to him, gray-haired, stout, wearing a button-down shirt with a tie flung over his thick shoulder. The light-blue cloth sticks to the man's back like skin, dried blood as the adhesive. Upon closer inspection, Jones can see that he's still breathing, moving, even...if only slightly. He tries flipping the man over, leaping back with a slight yelp when it reaches for his foot. Despite the hairs standing bristled on the back of his neck, he's able to breathe a sigh of relief; the creature isn't his dear boss.

A heavy breath bursts out of his mouth; only one thing can be done for this fellow, no matter how bad he feels about it. No one should have to suffer so much in their final hours, he decides. He would just succumb to his wounds, or hunger, or get picked off slowly by some creature and die in even more agony. The silver magnum gleams in the gray of the overcast sky, drawing the attention of the infected. It stares at the firearm when the cock is pulled back, then at Jones. Then...it does something most peculiar. His hand twitches for a moment before he raises it slightly, towards the gun...then...he nods, staring the policeman right in the eyes. It causes Jones to gasp, and then blanch. This person isn't infected at all. He's simply a man, in agonizing pain.

"Wh-...Wha-...What's your name?" Jones stutters.

The man's eyes twitch. His hand reaches for the gun, fingers dripping with his own blood.

Jones steps back, fingers raking through his short hair. This man isn't infected. He can't be. His eyes don't have that crazed, empty look; his teeth haven't gnashed once at him. He looks down at him again. His blood is seeped through the front of his shirt as well, and there's a pool of the stuff surrounding him. No bite marks at all. None. He tries to ask the man more questions, but it's obvious he's already too far gone, just staring longingly at the firearm.

His police state of mind hates the situation. This is a man, not an animal, that's hurt. Then, there's his lack of infection. He wants to know who did this, why, and which direction they went. The plain, simple-man side that is Benjamin Jones alone...tells him that there's only one option. There have been no answers from the hospital or police station phones. Power could be down, for all he knows. Anyone at the hospital is most likely infected, dead, or have hit the highway. He knows no medical procedures, and would probably just end up causing more harm than help.

He swallows loudly, holds the magnum up again. The man's eyes brighten, hands once more reaching for the weapon. Jones makes sure the aim is on target before squeezing shut his eyes...and the trigger. The arms that had once been reaching out slap against the pavement. The wheezy, uneven breathing comes to a startling halt. He doesn't have to look at the poor soul to see if he's dead or not. His shoulders droop as he turns, mounting the Mustang feeling heavier than ever.

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Downtown is a disaster zone. Once domestic, pet dogs run rampant, knocking over trash bins, eating rubbish, fighting amongst themselves. Several shop windows have been broken in; one has a bloodied, partially devoured body hanging over the sill, pale arms laying out on the sidewalk. A red car completely blocks the front of one shop, gnarled from...who knows how many barrel rolls, while another remains twisted around a telephone pole. He has to slam on the breaks, momentarily startled by a body hanging from the top of one of the buildings...by a rope around the neck. The neighborhoods, unsurprisingly, are worse. More rubbish, more blood...though oddly, it's quiet. Eerily quiet. No animals running around here, barking, fighting. No breeze, no chirping birds, just the roar of the Mustang.

His house, aside from the rubbish in the front yard, looks fine. He'd be pleased to find his place of residence relatively untouched, if he weren't still disturbed by prior events. He wastes no time parking in the drive, however, or withdrawing a pistol upon leaving. His brows draw together as he nears the front door, noticing that one of the panes is broken. Only one. Someone went to lengths to cause the most minimal damage possible. His boot bumps something heavy and loose, sending it skidding across the concrete...a rock from his garden.

He shifts to the side, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. A slow, silent breath of relief flows over his teeth as he pushes the door open; he remembered to grease the hinges before leaving on holiday. The kitchen is practically untouched, aside from dirty dishes in the sink. The loosely rolled, yellowed linoleum squeaks beneath his feet, giving him reason to pause and survey the living room from just in front of the kitchen table. The television still rests in the upper left corner, its black sheen contrasting with the tan carpet and brown couch. The white curtains even seem to hang the same way over the small window, right next to the television.

He allows his squeaky footsteps to be heard as he makes his way to the next room, scanning the darkened corners, looking for anything out of the ordinary, before flipping the light switch. Dim, yellowy light fills the room from the ceiling fan, blades starting up slowly. Something glints on the carpet as he approaches the couch, and as he nears it, finds it's an empty bullet casing. His senses are heightened further, now. He targets the bathroom next, not hesitating to flip on the light and throw back the shower curtain. Nothing but a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap greet him there.

He checks the guest bedroom. The sheets on the bed look chaotic, like someone had a horrible nightmare and kicked and fussed with them. They lay partially on the bed, partially on the floor. The middle drawer in the chestnut dresser hangs half-way open, a t-shirt hanging over the side of it. The closet doors, to the left of the door, are open, saving him the trouble. He checks under the bed, too, finding clothing there as well.

It's when he sets foot in the master bedroom that Charlie starts to growl, striking that pose with his ears pricked forward, tail straight up, aside from the slight curve. Jones nods, figuring this would be the place they'd hide (it being the biggest room in the house, aside from the living room). He turns the light on, and heads straight for the closet, only, he doesn't have to throw the doors open...someone else does. He leaps back, keeping his weapon raised, while Charlie barks louder at his side.

"The place is taken, all right! Get out!" It's a woman, tall and curvy, with curly blonde hair. She stares him down fiercely, holding a weapon of her own...his prized black magnum that he fires and cleans every other weekend, and keeps in his nightstand. Her eyes remind him of the mountain water he saw with his cousin in Switzerland, a silky sort of turquoise that try to intimidate him, and would, if he didn't plainly see the fear in them. He is a great deal taller than her, after all, despite how tall she is herself. Her hands tremor slightly as she raises the magnum higher. "I'll shoot!" She warns.

He shakes his head. "No, you won't. You don't have it in you to shoot an innocent man. I can tell."

"Do you really want to test that theory?" She asks, failing to hide the quiver in her voice. A sweet voice, despite the forcefulness.

"I'm DS Ben Jones...Just reaching for my back pocket." He adds when her hands flinch at his movement. He tosses his badge to her feet, which is picked up by someone else that was hiding in the closet: a young man, no older than sixteen. "And I'm the owner of his house. Why don't you put my pistol down, and we can talk?" As a white-flag gesture, he leans slowly over to his bed, easing the magnum down onto the mattress.

The blonde lowers the weapon slightly, not completely pointing it away from him. "What's it say?" She asks the boy.

He nods, still staring at the information just above the badge. "He's telling the truth."

But the blonde refuses to give up so easily. The pistol is raised slightly higher.

The boy steps forward a little. "Uhm...He's a cop."

She doesn't take her eyes off Jones as she replies, "Just because he's a cop...doesn't mean he'll help us. And how do we know you own the house, _Sergeant_?"

The boy steps around her, giving Jones a cautious look in the eyes, before stepping around him, too. He opens the top drawer of the nightstand like he owns it, coming to stand between stranger and family once he's found what he wants. "See?" He says, holding up a photo.

The blonde side-steps quickly, keeping the lad out of the line of fire...and Jones in it. "Stay out of the way, Peter." She spares a glance at the photo, an unprofessional, slightly blurred snap-shot of Jones with his arm around a woman, who has the same shade of hair, same smile.

Jones takes advantage of her distraction, catching Peter around the throat with the cradle of his right arm, shoving his head down with his left hand. "I'm not going to hurt him." His voice is calm, despite Peter's struggles. "Now, what's your name?"

"Kirsty." She says through gritted teeth. "Let go of my brother."

"Kirsty?" His brows raise a little. "Okay. I'm afraid that's not how it works. I will negotiate, but not until you give me my gun back, and you cool off."

Peter, who's face is changing colors, begins nodding frantically. "Give 'im the gun! Give 'im the gun!"

She knows she's defeated, it shows bitterly in her Alp-river eyes. Her arms lower in a robotic fashion, moving a few inches, then stopping, then moving again, before she finally places the weapon in the out-stretched hand of the police officer.

Peter falls from his grip unceremoniously, crippled in a heap of coughs on the floor. Kirsty rushes to his side while Jones releases the clip from the pistol, looks at the ammunition, then slides it back in as she pats her brother's back.

"Next time you think you're going to shoot someone," He says quietly, "At least take the safety off."

She glares at him from her place on the floor, choosing not to say anything.

He disappears into the bathroom, coming back with a glass of water. "I'm sorry, Peter. You understand I had to do that, right? I apologize."

Peter only nods, drinking the water gratefully.

Jones seats himself on the edge of his bed (not as badly askew as the guest bed), reaching for the picture as he settles. He remembers when this photo was taken...back before this disease broke out and Satan seemed to inhabit all that were infected. He folds the photo in half and shoves it inside his jacket, opting to focus on the present...however horrific it is.

Peter's coughing has died down, replaced by heavy breaths, the occasional word of assurance to his sister. He looks nothing like his concerned sibling. While her hair is blonde and curly, his is straight and brunette, parted in the middle to give him locks, while the back is cropped short and squared off. His eyes match the chocolate of his hair, as do his eyebrows, and his skin is generally a reddish shade, instead of pale. There's also the age difference. Peter can't be any older than sixteen. His sister, however, could be anywhere from thirty to thirty-five.

He realizes after a moment that he's staring, and being stared back at. He clears his throat awkwardly, rubs his neck. "Where are you from?"

"Surrey." Peter answers, recovered from his coughing fit.

"Outside of London? What brought you all the way to Midsomer?"

"The same reason everyone's scattered...The sickness."

He nods slowly, scratching Charlie behind the ears when he sits by his feet. "Any reason you picked my house?"

"We-"

"It was the safest." Kirsty interrupts. "All of the other houses had been broken into beyond repair...or they contained..." She glances at Peter, absorbed by drinking the rest of his water, "Deceased people. Yours was one of the ones not touched...Don't ask me why."

"How long have you been here?"

"A week."

"Have you been able to observe those...things?"

"Not really. We stay in here most of the day, away from the windows."

He nods again, replacing the silver magnum with the black one in his shoulder holster, and the smaller black one against his back with the silver magnum. He stands quietly, handing a confused Kirsty the smaller gun. "This is more your caliber. It's dead-on. Hardly any kick at all, but it does the job...trust me."

"Why-"

"I have a few coolers of food in the car that I was intending to bring inside...I'm going to need help."

He's grateful for these strangers, even if they are intruders. They've shown him he's not alone in this abyss of infected. As he leads them to the front door, he casts a silent thank you up to anyone listening.

"_Nice_ ride." Peter gawks. "May want to lock it when we're done, though."

Kirsty nods. "There are thieves running about. They'll probably just try to break a window, but you'll be able to catch them before they can hot wire...They're pretty amateur here."

Yes, he's _definitely _grateful.

**Okay, I'm REEEEEALLY sorry it's been so long since my last update. I'm not gonna lie, my muse got extremely low, and I just **_**couldn't**_** for the life of me, think of what I wanted in chapter three. But anyway. Now that the excuses are out of the way:**

**And a Pickle: Thank you. Epic is what I shoot for. I appreciate the constructive criticism. It won't be the last time I slip on American/English terms. Just keep pointing them out, and I'll learn. Thank you for giving me the English terms. :)**

**DarknessDeadly: I appreciate your enthusiasm! That's what I like to hear (or read, rather)! Thank you for the comment on the gore...I was afraid I wasn't describing it well enough. And yes, if I were surrounded by the living dead (or in this case, the horridly infected), I would be **_**terrified.**_** Not gonna lie, I can be pretty wimpy. XD I'll try to keep the time between updates to a minimum. **

**Rollieo 122: Heehee. That's my dream car! Oh, and I would totally go around grabbing random stuff that I would need. If no one is around to take the money, and most likely won't be around for the duration of the zombie apocalypse, what are you to do but just...take? I would certainly do it. Yeah, there was something missing, so Charlie just had to come into the picture. Thanks for the compliment! I'll try to keep the update gap shorter. **

**Again, sorry so much for the delay! I hope this chapter was long enough to make up for it. Please review, and give me any ideas or suggestions if you have any. Remember, your reviews are the gasoline to the flame!**


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